


Imposters in This Country

by Mslollywillowes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Armitage Hux Needs A Hug, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gingerpilot, M/M, Mild Suicidal Ideation, Not Canon Compliant, Self-Doubt, Smut, anxiety and depression, five miles out verse, mental health recovery, poe and hux are married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mslollywillowes/pseuds/Mslollywillowes
Summary: "This is how it goes: a coming together, an ending, a renewing, every time between them. Hux thinks: tomorrow, he will try again. Poe is always making and unmaking him, and making him again, with the sundry pieces of himself Hux thought he had lost forever or never possessed at all."On Yavin 4, Hux tries to come to terms with being happy.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Armitage Hux
Comments: 17
Kudos: 69





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came out of a feelings keysmash while I was working on Chapter 19 of Five Miles Out (which should be up Sunday or Monday) and because I needed gingerpilot being ridiculously soft with one another. The title comes from 'A Sorta Fairytale' by Tori Amos, which I literally listened to on repeat while writing this.

Summer grew on Yavin 4 like the apple blossom, like honey, like the sweet warm nectar of the orchard groves, heavy with fruit. Hux has never seen a summer like it. In truth, he has never _seen_ a summer before recently. The joke went that Arkanis was underwater most of the year and Hux isn’t sure if childhood memory is exaggerating for the worse, but all he can recall are endless sheets of rain, thunder brooding on the horizon, the sea – iron grey and unforgiving, always restive against the teeth of the cliff. In contrast, starships have vitamin lamps and sometimes, if you’re lucky, simulated sunrise and sunset – but that’s only the civilian ones.

Poe’s homeworld has rainbow-winged insects drunk on leavened fruit, jungles so vast some of them are yet unmapped, a scent of grass and pollen on the air so vibrant it tickles Hux’s airways with every breath. He is allergic to most all of it, he has discovered, but thinks he can probably live with it. Poe’s father has some dubious-sounding hypothesis about local honey working as a good antihistamine (it sounds to Hux like a kind of holistic immunotherapy), and has already sourced some from a neighbour’s hives. It is entirely too sweet for Hux’s taste, but he has some in his tea that morning to keep his father-in-law happy. Kes watches him eagerly over the breakfast table as Hux stirs a tentative spoonful into his first-brew cup.

“I think you might need more than that,” he says. “Do you want to try some on toast?”

Hux demurs – “Thank you, no” – because endearing (or intolerable) enthusiasm is clearly a Dameron inherited trait, and Poe has been pestering him with his own remedies.

“Koyo fruit is supposed to help. I’ll get the picker out after lunch and get you some.”

Koyo is rather like what Hux has read watermelon tastes like, only much smaller and with strange hard seeds like pebbles. He nearly breaks a tooth the first time he tries one, before Poe shows him how to core it in the way you might an apple, removing the flesh, which is pale gold and succulent, to leave the stony interior intact. This meant the seeds could be replanted, Poe explains; it’s how his parents, and now his father, always sustained the grove in a rhythm of give and take.

The taste of koyo is certainly not disagreeable to Hux, but once again altogether far too sweet. He tries a bit of it, with Poe looking very much like Kes as he watches him, all eager eyes and expectant smiles.

“It’s – very pleasant,” Hux offers at last.

Poe actually leans forward slightly. “Do you feel any better?”

Hux laughs. “It must have magical properties if it’s supposed to work that fast.”

He doesn’t feel _ill_ anyway – he just can’t stop sneezing. They have been here nearly a full week now, an extended layover after their honeymoon before they head home, and there hasn’t been a moment of daylight when Hux hasn’t been tormented by the gritty, tickly sensation in his eyes, his nose, even his ears. Nightfall brings an element of reprieve, but there even seems to be something about the quality of the sunlight here that sets him off. The simple act of stepping from the shade of the terrace out onto the heat of the lawn finds him briefly rendered helpless by a run of sneezes. To begin with, Poe counts them and he and Kes keep track, shouting a tally at one another as though they have money on it – “Seventeen!” – “Twenty-one this morning!”. Their amusement is gentle, and Hux only really feigns irritation with it, but he is visibly so exhausted by the end of one day that Poe and his father seem to come to a silent accord to put the game to rest. The next day, Kes suggests honey.

“I don’t suppose your lot knew much about growing stuff,” he says, as though by way of explanation as to why Hux is so appallingly ignorant on such matters. He can be gruff, prickly even, about Hux’s past, which Hux understands, but he is always surprised to hear Kes bring it up on his own initiative. It is perhaps the only subject between the three of them that isn’t easy and good-natured, and is the only thing Hux has noticed Poe and his father bickering over. Kes has strong opinions about the community service Hux has already served, and how else he might put his skills to use for the greater good.

“You’re an engineer,” he says. This is apparently considered brand new information to Hux. “If you can fix a star cruiser, you can fix a generator. There’s more work out there than you realise.”

In truth, this is something else that has been keeping Hux awake at night, apart from his and Poe’s slow, lazy lovemaking, basking in such _time_ as they have to enjoy one another’s bodies. He hasn’t technically been unemployed since he was five years old. But this is all so new, and he still doesn’t quite feel as though he knows which way is up – which is both shiveringly delightful when it comes to Poe, and absolutely terrifying when it comes to everything else.

“I could put in a word for you at the garage in town,” Kes says.

“No,” Hux says, rather too hastily to be entirely polite. Kes regards him across the table, clearly uncomprehending.

“Why not? It would be good for you. People would see you differently.”

For once, he is grateful for the prolonged intervention of a sneezing fit that renders him incapable of replying straight away. By the time Hux has finished sneezing and is blowing his nose, Kes is talking to Poe about his old podracer.

“You two should take it out for a spin. It’ll give you something to do.”

Poe, who has been stroking Hux’s back comfortingly as he sneezed, says, “We’ve got plenty to do, dad.” He doesn’t mean it like _that_ but Hux blushes and gives him a look. Kes doesn’t seem to notice either way.

“I do fully intend to seek employment,” Hux says to Poe later. They are sitting on the terrace and Poe is putting suncream on Hux’s shoulders; he burns even through the cotton of his shirt. He has never been shirtless outside before but as Poe’s current task does indeed require Hux’s shirtlessness, and as there are only his husband and some unseen, clear-voiced bird around presently to witness it, Hux deigns to permit it. He won’t quite admit to how pleasant it feels, his naked skin and the mid-morning warmth, with Poe’s hands on him.

Poe’s fingers coast lightly across his shoulderblades. He is in peril of turning this into a massage, which Hux _definitely_ cannot permit.

“There’s no rush, babe. I’ve got savings. I can get work. And my dad wouldn’t exactly let us starve.”

“I will not allow you to _keep_ me,” Hux says, more sharply than he intends. He sighs, his shoulders drooping beneath Poe’s hands.

“I can’t bear the idea of being a burden to you.”

The snap of the suncream bottle cap being replaced. Poe begins working the cool liquid onto the back of Hux’s neck. _Definitely_ nearly a massage. Hux shifts a little, trying to discourage him, and Poe’s hand immediately slides to smooth the cream into his upper arm instead, not missing a beat. It gives Hux the purest sensation of love he thinks he has ever felt, to _know_ that Poe knows him that well.

“You won’t be a burden to me,” Poe says. “We’re a team. If our places were swapped, you’d do the same for me.”

“Yes,” Hux says, and he realises now that he knows this to be perfectly true. Which is to say, he would do anything for Poe, just as Poe would do anything for him. He sniffs softly, and for once it’s not because he can feel a sneeze coming.

Three days later, a storm brings a branch down through the roof of Kes’s greenhouse. The storm leaves as suddenly as it has come, but freshens the air and brings some respite to Hux’s sinuses. Kes is philosophical about the damage, though he is far beyond the age of repairing it himself and workmen are expensive after the war, for the moment at least. Before Poe can offer to fix it himself, Hux jumps in.

“I may be able to make it more structurally sound,” he says. There’s a anxious edge to his voice that he has to stop and clear his throat to try and quell. He wants to please Kes more desperately than he had thought. “Are there plans for it I could look at?”

“Plans?” Kes laughs, in that open, unself-conscious way he shares with his son. “It’s a greenhouse, not a death star.”

Hux closes his mouth, feeling like he’s been slapped. Neither Kes or Poe seem to notice, so he turns and heads towards the house before they do, walking jerkily as he holds his hands at his sides.

Poe finds him rinsing the breakfast crockery in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“I was talking to you and didn’t realise you’d gone,” Poe says, laughing. He puts his hand on Hux’s lower back, waits to see if he pulls away, slips his arm fully around his waist when he doesn’t.

“I think I flounced off,” Hux says. He has leant back into Poe’s touch slightly. He feels rather bewildered by himself.

He feels as much as hears the soft exhalation of Poe’s laugh against his ear, and by now Poe has encircled him, both arms around Hux’s waist, his front pressed snugly to Hux’s back, matching the pressure where Hux has leant into him. It is always this way now: one yearning in to meet the other, drawn over and over to the pull of one another’s bodies. Hux begins to feel the tangled, knotted parts of himself start to unfurl, slowly at first, and then increasingly helplessly, as he melts against Poe, as he always does.

“Don’t take any notice of my dad,” Poe says. “He’s got a weird sense of humour sometimes.”

Hux rinses one of the chipped blue and white teacups that he wishes weren’t chipped because they are _beautiful_. He needs something to do with his hands.

“There are ways of making it more viable, however,” he says. It is rather easier to talk about the greenhouse.

Poe has rested his chin on Hux’s shoulder. “Well, we’ve got plenty of wood out back. We can shore it up for the time being.”

“Yes. These need bleaching to get the stains out.”

“Think those have been there since I was a kid.” Poe’s hands are fidgeting along Hux’s waistband where he has tucked the hem of his shirt into his trousers. He is kissing along Hux’s shoulder now, towards where his neck is bared by the line of his collar. In the soapy water, Hux’s hands go still. He wants to close his eyes.

“Don’t,” he says instead. “Your father.”

He can see Kes outside, picking up smaller bits of scattered tree from around the greenhouse. If he turned towards the house, he would probably see Hux’s outline, perhaps could discern the white planes of his face framed ghostlike in the window.

Poe’s hands have retreated from their voyage towards Hux’s belt buckle. “You know, I think he might have guessed that we occasionally touch each other, Tidge.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to flaunt it under his roof. It’s – ” His hand reaches for Poe’s automatically as he searches for the word, uncertain. “ _Unseemly_ ,” he finds at last, looking down in some surprise as he remembers that his hand is wet and he is dripping all over the floor.

Poe laughs, bites him very, very gently on the bare part of his neck. “What does unseemly mean?”

Hux’s skin is like a displaced pool of water beneath Poe’s mouth, shivers rippling outward from the point of disturbance. He feels his nipples stiffening into sensitive peaks beneath his shirt. “ _Inappropriate_ ,” he pronounces, lecturely. “ _Improper_.” His breath hitches as Poe’s clever, infuriating mouth finds the curve of his ear. “ _Precisely_ what you are doing right now.”

“I guess I want to do _lots_ of unseemly things to you then,” Poe says, a grin in his voice. Hux gives in then, for a moment, his eyes sinking shut as he lets himself feel, in the darkness behind his closed lids, his body as plucked and thrumming as an atom vibrating in space.

“I love you,” he says. It has taken him a long time to get used to saying it.

“I love you too, honey.” It has taken even longer for him to get used to hearing it.

After the storm, it rains serenely for nearly a week. The moisture seems to hang in the air in gleaming shoals, greening the foliage, and Hux finds he can breathe properly for the first time since he got here. Poe discovers him sitting by the open bedroom window just at the crest of dawn one morning, a cup of tea perched between his fingers, the collar of Poe’s shirt that he has been wearing as a nightshirt puddling loose around one bare, freckled shoulder.

“Sorry about the weather,” Poe says. He’s unashamedly naked and still warm with sleep. He smells _divine_.

“It’s _wonderful_ ,” Hux says, meaning it.

“Would have thought you’d had your fill of rain from Arkanis.”

“Arkanis,” Hux says crisply, “does not rain. It _saturates_.”

“How did you guys all deal with like, no sun ever?”

“I don’t remember.” He does, vaguely – the listless howl of the wind; the incremental judiciousness of the sea’s rising, eating its way inland; how everything always seemed flavoured with brine and salt and fish flesh – but thinking about Arkanis still catches on his edges and makes his stomach tighten. Poe knows this, and so he doesn’t press further. Instead, he neatens Hux’s sleep-tousled hair a little, tucking it back and behind Hux’s ears and feathering away the loose strands on his brow, only to disarray it again, mussing it beneath his palm and tugging it between his fingers. Hux mimes tolerating this while in fact encouraging it, holding a pained, patient expression on his face while he tilts his head so Poe can stroke him more.

“Look at you,” Poe whispers, reverence lining his voice.

Hux glances away from him then, towards the shining, new-green outside, because he has loved and been loved by Poe Dameron for nearly two years now and he still cannot fathom what Poe sees when he looks at him. There has never been a time in Hux’s life when he has ever felt beautiful, but the clear, uncomplicated weight of Poe’s gaze on him makes him realise that truly no one has ever _looked_ at him before now – only through or around, wishing him _gone_ , wishing him _dead_ , wishing him _different_. By Poe, he is utterly, irretrievably _seen_ , with all the tangled terrible and wonderful repercussions inherent in such a thing.

“Come back to bed,” Poe says, and Hux is more than happy to oblige, a luxury he has never known before. His tea has gone cold by the time Poe brings him to orgasm, with his mouth and his fingers, his inventive, clever tongue lapping at Hux’s clenching hole, before he flips Hux over onto his back and slides himself deep to finish too, Hux’s legs flung over his shoulders, Hux’s fingers coiled in his hair, but in the blissful, limbless afterglow, Hux finds that he is so deeply, so irrecoverably in love with his husband that he does not care a whit.

Poe takes him by surprise a few days later when he says, “Hey, we should go in the waterfall.”

Hux looks up at him from the circuit breaker he has dismantled on the workbench. Last week’s storm, along with damaging the greenhouse, had caused the power to trip for a few hours, and Hux suspects one of the components in the breaker might be overloading. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, a crumpled handkerchief has been tucked impatiently up his sleeve as he works, and a cup of honeyed tea steams near his elbow: the heat returned yesterday, and he has begun to sneeze again.

“I didn’t know you even _had_ a waterfall,” he says.

Poe nods. They have been enjoying each other’s company largely in silence up until now; Poe is on the opposite side of the workbench, cannibalising a speeder engine for parts.

“Yeah. It’s a ways behind the house. I used to swim in it all the time when I was a kid.”

Hux begins to unscrew the star bit from the head of the screwdriver. “I’m not much of a swimmer,” he says. He has never swam in his life.

“It’s not very big, and there are lots of places where you can touch the bottom,” Poe says. He moves his shoulders in an easy-going way, his eyes on the engine piece he is working on. “It would be kinda fun. Kinda sexy.”

Hux sniffs, tries to reply, manages to pluck his handkerchief out in time to press against his nose before he sneezes tremendously. Straightening again, he says, nose still buried, his voice muffled, miserable, “If – you would like that.” He has never been an especially _fun_ person, even with Poe Dameron, rebel pilot extraordinaire as a husband. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to _try_ to be, for Poe.

Poe glances up at him then. He has a quizzical little smile on his face. “There’s no pressure, babe.”

It turns out that the waterfall is more of an overflow from the river that runs through part of the jungle here, tipping over the edge of a smoothly worn bowl of rock into a shaded lagoon below. The lagoon itself is intensely blue and deceptively placid; Hux can see the place where a small riptide is ruffling the surface, only really discernible from the slightly darker colour of the water there. When he asks Poe about it, Poe says there are underground rivers feeding the lagoon along with the waterfall, and that the current once nearly drowned him when he was nine. He tacks this last bit of information on so casually that Hux blinks at him, briefly outraged.

“It nearly killed you and you propose we _swim_ in it?”

“The shallow bits around the edge are fine, and it’s really warm there. I only used to go in the deeper part to show off.”

“Of course,” Hux says with a thin smile. He looks back at the lagoon, at the sinister little shivering patch of water.

“I’m not sure if I can,” he says hesitantly. He has a cat’s dislike of being wet along with that animal’s preoccupation with cleanliness; the prospect of this, of being outside, potentially dirty, and submerged in water, is not an enticing one to him. But as he regards the lagoon with growing dismay, Poe is toeing off his boots, is already calf-deep in the shallows, grinning back at him.

“Baby, it’s nice, just try it. Come on, I’ve got you.” He is holding out both his hands, ready to take Hux’s, to steady him.

“No, I – ” The panic deluges him with a suddenness that makes him put his hand over his mouth. In the water below him, he sees Poe’s smile falter and slip in concern, and then he is hiking up the bank with easy strides and taking Hux in his arms, unquestioningly. Behind his hand, Hux tries to stifle a fragmented little whimper, tucking himself instinctively against Poe.

“It’s okay.” Poe is nudging little kisses against Hux’s cheek, running his hands up and down his back. “It’s okay.”

Hux buries his face in Poe’s neck, because the shock of the panic has made him _cry_ , stars curse him, and he is briefly too overwhelmed to fully process the countless other little shocks of stress and anxiousness and fear that are currently trying to push their way to the surface, none of which have anything to do with the damn waterfall. As always, Poe seems to sense what he needs, and nuzzles him, kissing him more.

“I love you,” he says, against Hux’s wet cheek. “I love you.”

That night, they feel their way around one another’s bodies by touch alone, and Hux finds it easier to believe that he can belong here. “Are you okay?” Poe asks him again, his eyes a flash in the darkness. And Hux says, “Yes. Yes,” and means it.

This is how it goes: a coming together, an ending, a renewing, every time between them. Hux thinks: tomorrow, he will try again. Poe is always making and unmaking him, and making him again, with the sundry pieces of himself Hux thought he had lost forever or never possessed at all. Tomorrow will be another chance for him, and the next day, and the day after that.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated a couple of the tags on this because it's taken a bit of a turn into exploring Hux's mental health that I hadn't initially expected. I'm not going to be dealing with anything massively heavy here, but take care :)

Then, just as Hux thinks he has begun to understand which way is up, the world tilts on its axis all over again.

“I’ll be gone two days max, babe,” Poe says. There is an _I promise_ layered somewhere in the slightly apologetic tone of his voice. He is lying with his head soft and warm against Hux’s shoulder, his dark curls tugged loose in sleep. He is naked; Hux is not – he’s wearing another of Poe’s old shirts, and it’s rucked up slightly around his waist, exposing the curve of his bottom where Poe’s hand is presently resting, and the cautious, early-morning fullness of his cock. Hux would concede that he may as well be naked, should someone ask him – which no one _has_ , thank you very much – but to be completely exposed even furled in his husband’s arms feels too vulnerable, too unnatural to him, still. And besides, Poe’s shirt feels glorious against his skin; even brand new clean and fresh off the line, it still smells like him somehow, and Hux luxuriates in the idea of being wrapped in Poe’s scent like this. Beneath the thin blanket, their feet are tucked together; Hux can feel Poe stroking his toes just lightly against Hux’s insole. It feels pleasantly ticklish, and he has been arching and flexing his own toes in response – but now he goes still.

“Two _days_?” His voice comes out in an embarrassing squawk.

The comm reached them late last night. Hux had been feeling too pleasurably wrung out and sleepy following Poe’s attentions to properly listen to the soft murmur of Poe and Kes’s voices on the landing, and when Poe comes back to bed all Hux can manage is an inarticulate little noise of acknowledgement when Poe says, kissing him, “Gonna have to pop to Crillar tomorrow”. Hux’s eyes are already slipping closed.

But it’s the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up the next morning. Crillar is the town on the other side of the colony, a good hour’s journey away even by speeder. It’s early and Poe is still asleep, so Hux puts on a dressing gown and takes himself downstairs to make tea. It still feels almost scandalously indulgent, and he startles a little guiltily when the kitchen door opens and Kes comes in. He’s already been outside, probably working on the greenhouse.

“Won’t say no,” he says, nodding at Hux’s cup on the table, and Hux smiles and adds more water to the pot. There are several minutes of silence while Hux tends the tea, which he suspects only he is finding uncomfortable. He still struggles finding common ground with his father-in-law, apart from attempting to politely deflect Kes’s efforts to hire him out as a mechanic. He also doesn’t like Kes seeing him like this, barefoot and uncombed; it makes him feel as though he is somehow taking advantage of Kes’s hospitality, flaunting himself as though he believes this place to be his home.

 _It **is** your home_. He hears Poe's voice in his head, and he feels only half-inclined to argue back with this hypothetical version of his husband even though this isn’t quite true – not really, not yet. Either way, he doesn’t want Kes thinking him impertinent.

“I’ll never know how you drink it like that,” Kes says as Hux lifts his cup of well-brewed black tea to his mouth, and Hux hesitates, again half-guiltily, before he realises Kes is teasing rather than criticising. It makes him feel a little flustered, a little shy nonetheless, and he sets his cup back in the saucer without sipping. Kes’s own tea is creamed, sugared, and Hux feels faintly nauseated just looking at it.

“An acquired taste, I fear,” he says, and is gratified when Kes smiles at him warmly.

“Ah, you can’t have lost all of it when you married him.” He has a tendency not to refer to Poe by name, as though his son always exists in affectionate short-hand in his head. It baffled Hux during his first few days on Yavin 4, but now he understands that _he_ usually means Poe whenever Kes is speaking.

“You got any plans for while he’s away?” Hux is about to make another attempt at sipping his tea, but this makes him pause again with the cup nearly at his lips.

“I’m sorry?”

Kes makes a gesture as though this should be obvious. “He’s not gonna get that ship demobbed in an afternoon, is he?”

Hux feels his thoughts scatter like the shards of a dropped glass. He does sip his tea this time; it’s scalding hot and feels as though it’s stripping a layer from his tongue, but he swallows it while barely feeling the pain. How long does Poe intend to be away for? Without Hux? He would have spoken to him about it first, Hux is certain of it. No: this is a misunderstanding on Kes’s part, to be sure. His cup chatters a little unsteadily against the saucer as he places it back down, very carefully.

“Oh, I’ll be going with him,” he says, more confidently than he feels. “I imagine you’ll be glad to have the house to yourself again.”

Kes gives an off-hand little shrug. “I've been enjoying the company.”

Hux finishes his tea and excuses himself. There is something scratchy and uncomfortable lodged beneath his breastbone, running from the junction of his clavicle to the tender place where his ribcage meets. It feels a little like the nervous dart of pleasure that skims through him whenever Poe looks at him with that wicked little curl to his mouth, but this is a version of the sensation that he wants to be rid of. He _wants_ Poe.

Their bedroom is cool and dark; it’s still too early for humidity (or, to Hux’s enormous relief, significant pollen levels), and the gauzy curtains are stirring slightly over the open window. Poe is lying on his back, one arm flung out across Hux’s side of the bed as though he has reached out for his husband in his sleep. The blanket is pulled across his chest and part of his face, but his lower body is poking out, exposing his thick muscular legs and his beautiful cock. Poe sleeps how he lives: expansively, uninhibited. Where Hux sleeps most comfortably curled up on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest, his hands folded beneath his chin, Poe is all arms and legs and abandoned modesty. He is a terrible blanket thief and will usually end up halfway across the bed by the night’s end, but Hux finds that he doesn’t mind at all, will often wake cuddled up to Poe’s back or tucked securely beneath his arm. More often than not, he will fall asleep with his face hidden against the warm darkness of Poe’s chest, his heart a solid, reassuring thump against Hux’s cheek, shuffled slightly further down the bed so Poe can rest his chin on the top of Hux’s head. He will wake with the soft, warm puff of Poe’s breath against his brow, feeling loved and safe.

 _Safe_.

Hux strips off the dressing gown, begins to fold it neatly before he catches himself with a little snarl of self-deprecation and purposefully throws the gown more haphazardly across the back of the chair. _See_ , he says to Poe in his head— _I’m making progress_.

 _Be proud of me_.

When he crawls a little awkwardly into the space on the bed between Poe’s out-flung arm and angled leg, Poe stirs beside him, his hand moving to sift through Hux’s hair. His eyes are still closed, but he is smiling.

“G’mornin’ sexy,” he mumbles. Hux smiles and nips him gently on the nose.

“This is most slovenly of you, commander,” he says. “Was the Resistance always so lax in instilling discipline in their pilots?”

“’S’okay, I’ve got you to discipline me now.” Poe rolls over, pulling Hux on top of him, and they are kissing, slow, open-mouthed kisses that light a fire beneath the anxious knot in Hux’s chest, almost burning it away. He feels Poe reaching beneath the hem of his nightshirt, his hand slipping between Hux’s thighs, and it takes an entirely military amount of self-discipline for Hux to move his own hand to grasp Poe’s wrist, staying him.

“Why are you going to Crillar?” he says.

“Hey, is this an interrogation?” Poe laughs, and yes, Hux will perhaps concede that the posture is somewhat confrontational, him gripping Poe’s wrist like this as he straddles him. He relents, feeling suddenly embarrassed, untangles himself a little clumsily and settles next to Poe. He can feel Poe’s erection brushing up against his thigh and his own cock is stirring in interest, but he keeps worrying that he is going to have to prompt Poe again to tell him about this Crillar business and it’s making his paranoia start to tick over.

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Poe is grinning, still early morning blurry, and he rolls back over so he can rest his head against Hux’s shoulder, mouthing a little at his collarbone. The hand that had been venturing between Hux’s thighs now comes to rest on the curve of Hux’s buttock, and Poe works his fingers there lightly, alternating gentle pressure and soft stroking. It’s making heat form along Hux’s spine in an entirely distracting way.

“They’re decommissioning the _Interceptor_ ,” Poe says at last, in a way that makes Hux think he had genuinely forgotten the question for a moment. He strokes one foot against Hux’s, tickling along the arch. “It’s a shame in a way but she’s pretty ancient and I think they want to use her as a teaching base.” He’s quiet for a moment. The sun is just beginning to slide across them in a warm, prismic haze. Outside, someone is trying to start a motor in the distance. “Guess it means the war’s really over.”

“Yes,” Hux says. For him, it has been a long process of losing himself by increments, in tiny, bitten off stages, his edges hacked away piecemeal while other angles of him are reconstructed. It has not been without pain, has often felt like relearning the sensation in one’s limbs after the nerve-endings have been seared in flame, like trying to walk again on shattered and splinted legs. Before now he has only ever been able to visualise the galaxy as a gaping maw of uncontrolled destructiveness; now that it is at peace – whatever that means –

Then, “I’ll be gone two days max, babe”, and the world remakes itself again into something unfamiliar, something new that he has to learn.

“They only want me there in an advisory capacity.” The satirical edge to Poe’s voice indicates how ludicrous a concept this is to any right-thinking person. Hux feels the corners of his mouth pinch and tighten as he looks up at the ceiling.

“What could you possibly _advise_ them about?” He doesn’t mean it like _that_ – the recriminatory and mildly derisive _you_ is entirely involuntary. It is a genuine question. Poe often jokes that Hux can make a compliment sound like an insult, to which Hux contends that most people are too stupid to realise when they are being slighted. He understands the power of baseless flattery and has used it himself in the past, as much a tool in his arsenal as the vibroblade he used to keep hidden in his sleeve.

Poe feigns offense in a good-natured way. “Hey, I like to think I have a _bit_ of expertise.”

“Can I come with you?” The words slip out before he can stop them. He does not recognise his own voice. Poe doesn’t reply straight away, and with every moment of silence Hux can feel his anxiety build. He realises suddenly that he is terrified of the prospect of being without Poe, for however short a time, and in the same moment thinks how utterly, how pitiably feeble that makes him. Being married to Poe has spoiled him, has softened his hard edges and made him weak. He wishes with every shred of his unspooling dignity that he could take the request back, while simultaneously hoping quite desperately that Poe will say yes.

When Poe does reply, he speaks while tracing nonsense little patterns on the bare patch of Hux’s shoulder where his collar gapes loose, in a casual way that Hux knows means he is lying.

“You might be kind of bored. There isn’t a lot to do there.”

He is trying to _charm_ him, Hux realises, and he isn’t sure if he feels offended, or amused, or both. He is not sure if it isn’t working. It is as though they are strangers, have taken one another to bed on a whim, and Poe is trying to weave his old magic.

“I’m not some brainless Coruscanti socialite who needs entertaining at every possible moment,” he replies tartly. “I am perfectly capable of amusing myself.”

Poe sighs. “I know, honey. It’s just…”

Hux half-sits up, dislodging Poe’s hand. “Just?” He is aware that his voice has sharpened in an argumentative way. Poe kicks the blanket a little to untangle his legs so he can sit up too. Hux can see him working something out, his thoughts skimming in subtle little motions across his face. He can see Poe weighing up whether to lie again, and it makes Hux want to fidget, to tug at his hair in a borderline of distress.

Poe scrubs a hand through his own hair, sighs again. He looks so perplexed that Hux is briefly frightened by what he can possibly be about to tell him.

“They – kind of asked me to come by myself,” Poe says.

Hux assembles the meaning behind this very quickly, which Poe is so gently trying to obscure. They have not asked Poe to come _specifically_ unaccompanied; they have asked him to come _specifically_ without Hux.

“I see,” he says. His voice sounds foolishly small.

“Baby.” Poe reaches for Hux’s hands where they are folded tightly in his lap, using his thumbs to carefully unfurl Hux’s fingers one by one. “It’s not really because of you – ”

“Of course it is,” Hux snaps. He can’t bear for Poe to try and protect him from this. “And it is perfectly logical besides.” He wants to assert some kind of authority over the idea of this, to divest it of the sting of emotion. He will _not_ feel rejected by these unnamed colony-dwellers who can’t even work out how to demobilise their own flagship.

Poe is working his fingertips into the creases of Hux’s palms, stroking over the old scars there. “They don’t know you, Tidge,” he says, his voice so tender that Hux actually feels his eyes prickle.

“A good thing too, otherwise I suspect they would have banned me from the planet,” Hux quips with a narrow little smile. There’s a flash of something as intense as lust in Poe’s eyes, but it’s weightier, more complex.

“ _I_ know you,” Poe says. He sounds very fierce suddenly, almost severe, in a way that makes the smile dissolve at the edges of Hux’s mouth. But Poe is tugging him closer, very, very gently, settling Hux’s body against his. “I love you for what is in _here_ ,” he says, lightly touching his fingertips to Hux’s temple. “And in _here_ ,” the same gesture, over Hux’s breast. “In your heart. Your _good_ heart.”

Hux tries to snort derisively at that, but it comes out more like a funny little whimper.

It feels good and natural to work their way into one another’s arms after that. Poe is in the process of pulling one of his favourite moves, one arm hooked beneath Hux’s leg, his mouth hot and wet against Hux’s inner thigh where the skin is softest and most tender, when Hux slides a hand into Poe’s hair, meaningfully, pulling his head up and back as he twists his own body out from underneath him. Poe’s pupils are blown with desire, darkening his already velvety irises – “You okay?” – but Hux is shuffling down the bed, kicking impatiently at the blanket to get it out of his way so he can access what he wants.

He is always a little nervous taking Poe in his hands like this; he isn’t very _good_ at it, he thinks, but he is a quick study and while he personally prefers Poe to eat him out rather than suck him off, he knows how Poe likes it. He hears Poe’s breath hitch and then a low, pleased “ _Heyyyy_ , hello” deep in his throat as Hux tentatively takes his erection in his hand, running his fingertips along the shaft. The skin of Poe’s cock is dark and velvety, his sac generously furred with glossy black curls. While Hux’s one hand works cautiously up and down Poe’s cock, his other moves to cup and stroke his balls, rolling them tenderly between his fingers. He feels so clumsy doing this, so inexpert, his usually deft, graceful hands reduced to fumbling, but Poe is making pleased little noises as Hux moves his hand, dipping his legs a little wider to give Hux more room between them.

Hux finds that he is at something of a strangle angle here, lying half on his side with his neck in an uncomfortable crick, but when Poe sighs shiveringly as Hux drags his fingertips along the underside of his cock, trailing towards the flushed, glistening tip, he feels a flash of boldness, ducks his head, takes Poe in his mouth.

He’s a little too eager, his nerves getting the better of him, and his teeth accidentally scrape against Poe’s shaft. He hears Poe draw a sharp hiss of air between his teeth, his hand moving to grasp a handful of Hux’s hair, holding his head still – firmly, but not ungently.

“Careful, babe.” He is half-laughing, his voice desire-roughened, rueful. Hux feels his face burn in shame. These days, he is rather miserably accustomed to being waylaid by little failures at every turn, but not being able to pleasure his own husband properly is a cataclysm that his pride and self-esteem recoil from. He draws back a little, licks his lips, trying to gather saliva in his anxious-dry mouth. Poe’s erection has already started to wilt by the time Hux is mouthing at it again, laving his tongue across the glans. Poe lies there patiently, petting Hux’s hair in an encouraging way, but either the moment has passed or Hux is simply too clatteringly incompetent at oral sex, because Poe’s cock is rapidly softening. Hux pauses in his slightly desperate ministrations, breathing hard, sniffs; his eyes are starting to itch.

Poe hand stirs in his hair. “Honey, it’s okay – ”

“Wait…oh – _fuck_ – ” Hux manages to turn away at the last moment and not actually sneeze _on_ Poe’s cock; his arm is shielding his blushing, burning face, and of course the sneeze turns into two, then three, then _so on_ , wrenching through him. When he’s finally finished, his eyes and nose are streaming and he has to wipe at them ineffectually with the sleeve of Poe’s borrowed shirt. _Stars_ , he feels wretched – disgusting, useless, hideously unattractive, can’t even suck his own husband off without ballsing it up – Sith hells, he _loathes_ himself – he’s actually glad for how red and weepy he is from sneezing because tears are pooling in his eyes –

Poe is trying to use the back of his hand, and then part of the blanket to dab at all the water on Hux’s face. “You’re leaking,” he says, and Hux splutters with laughter.

“That was a reprehensible excuse for a blowjob,” he says thickly. _Please don’t go_ , he wants to say. _Please don’t stop loving me_.

“Hey, I’ve had way worse.” Poe is still trying to mop him up. It’s irritating and tender and makes Hux’s heart flounder with love for him. “Not from _you_ ,” Poe adds emphatically, as though he has sensed Hux working himself up to be sarcastic.

“Is that so?” Hux tries for archness, is completely undermined by how watery he still is. “Well then, clearly I need more practise to avoid an unfavourable ranking.”

“I like practise,” Poe says. He’s kissing him rather than dabbing at him now. “Practise is good. Let’s practise lots.”

Afterwards, Hux thinks: the faces he puts on every day here are like a disguise, and Poe can see through all of them. And, he finds – this is all right.


End file.
